


Dead Leaves and the Dirty Ground

by riyku



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Manhandling, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2015-03-19
Packaged: 2018-03-18 16:01:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3575298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riyku/pseuds/riyku
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(from the prompt) Dean likes it rough, and Sam likes to give Dean what he wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dead Leaves and the Dirty Ground

**Author's Note:**

> written for [this prompt](http://spn-masquerade.livejournal.com/4214.html?thread=689014#t689014) over at [](http://spn-masquerade.livejournal.com/profile)[spn_masquerade](http://spn-masquerade.livejournal.com/). Warnings for rough sex and manhandling. Many, many thanks for the original prompter. Titles misappropriated from the Stripes.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

It's the seventh time Dean's asked the same exact question in the same exact way. Sam answered the first six and he's starting to get sick of repeating himself.

"I'm fine. Great," Sam says, and hunches down in the seat, props his knee on the dash, lets the vibration of the car untangle some of the knots in the muscles in his back. "It was a soft landing."

"You took a gravestone to the back of your head," Dean deadpans. "So it was a _fluffy_ gravestone, Sam?"

"Yeah. Memory foam," Sam shoots back. "It didn't even knock me out." Sure, he's a little sore, gets a crick in his neck when he tries to turn his head in a certain direction, but on a scale of one to ten it doesn't even register.

"How many fingers am I holding up?" Dean asks, and Sam knows his brother so well that he doesn't have to look, just gives him the middle finger right back. "Do you know where you are? Seeing any blurry spots? You know all that research that's been done on repeated head trauma—"

"Since when did you start researching head trauma?" Sam interrupts.

"Since whenever," Dean says dismissively and guns the engine, like that's supposed to somehow drive his point home. "That ghost flung you ten feet through the air."

"I remember. I was there."

"Yeah, well," Dean mutters, "I wasn't."

And that's the real problem, the actual point to all of Dean's poking and prodding and this unnecessary mother hen act he's got going on. He'd been a second too slow, a _fraction_ of a second. Dean always wants to be the one to take the hits. It goes hand in hand with his superhero mentality and his aversion to the sight of Sam with blood on his face. What he doesn't get, what he's never understood is that it goes both ways. It always has, and so long as Sam's heart still beats and his lungs still know how to pull in air, it always will.

"Pull over," Sam whispers, points to the soft shoulder of the two-lane blacktop, and there's gotta be something right about the tone in his voice, because Dean slows down immediately. The beams from the headlights bounce when the car drops down off of the pavement, get lost in the old-growth forest that lines one side of the road.

"You okay?" Dean asks again, and Sam lets this one slide. "You gonna be sick?"

"Get out," Sam says, cracks open the passenger door while the Impala's still rocking to a stop.

Dean throws the car into park. "Why?"

Sam's already out, but bends down to look at his brother, curls his tongue around his canine then says, "Because there's not enough room in here to do what I wanna do to you."

About a third of the way to the tree line, Dean catches up with him, starts to snatch Sam up by the elbow and Sam spins out of his grasp and comes up behind him, pins Dean's arms to his sides and sets his teeth in the nape of his brother's neck. They trip the rest of the way, an awkward tango of boots and shuffling steps. It's been a lifetime of watching his brother fight, of learning every low down dirty move in Dean's arsenal, and Sam's so good at predicting him now, knows what Dean's gonna do almost before Dean knows it. Sam can read him like a picture book, counteract every single struggle, although in all fairness it's obvious that Dean's heart really isn't in it.

The night is dark. Cloud cover hides the moon and it's even darker under the canopy of bare branches. The air is more dense here, clogged with the smell of rotting leaves and damp earth. The ground gives some under Sam's boots as he shoves Dean up against a tree trunk and keeps him there, pins his arms above his head and pushes his thigh between his brother's. He feels the stiff press of Dean's dick against his crotch and gets off on how fast Dean's gotten hard for him, giving it away like candy.

Dean grins at him, white flash of teeth very bright in the murk, cocky like he's somehow still the one in charge, so Sam's obliged to teach him all about the chain of command. He grips Dean's wrists tighter, so tight that he can feel the rub of bone on bone beneath his fingers. Dean's grin melts into a snarl, his eyes flash hard and dangerous and he grinds down against Sam's thigh.

"There it is," Sam says around a grin of his own and ducks in to lick the sweat from his neck, tastes adrenaline and graveyard dirt. He clamps down on Dean's earlobe, tugs and sucks then whispers, "You want it so bad, don't you big brother?"

"Fuck off," Dean says and tries to shoulder his way out of Sam's grip, but Sam's got him good, exactly where he wants him. He pushes Dean more snug against the tree trunk, picks up Dean's leg and wraps it around his hip to give himself more room, ruts against him and spends a some time sucking a mark into the crook of Dean's neck, just above the collar of his t-shirt where it'll be visible until it fades, where he can easily reach across the diner table or the hotel bed or the seat of the Impala and press his fingers against it in the days to come, remind Dean of where he's been and where he plans on staying.

Sam gets distracted by that thought, gets warped into thinking about it and his hold on Dean's wrists loosens enough for Dean to get free, get his hands on Sam's chest and give a push. It's feeble, but it snaps Sam back to attention pretty quick and he takes control again. Sam turns Dean around, smashes his face into the rough bark and lines his hips up to his brothers ass, gives him an idea of how he wants this to end up.

Keeping Dean trapped with his body, Sam reaches around, unhooks Dean's belt and pops his fly open, goddamn tight jeans his brother likes to wear, and yanks them down to his thighs. So fucking hard, Dean's dick slaps against his hand and Sam jacks it a couple of times, enough to get his fingers a little wet and to make his brother growl in frustration when he lets go.

Sam kicks Dean's feet wider, digs his fingers roughly into his hips and steers him, makes him arch his spine and tip his ass up then grinds into him, knows full well that his jeans are doing a number on Dean's skin, causing it to burn and grow hot. He also knows that Dean likes it, sometimes needs it. It's about the pain, sure, but it's more about the trust. Dean's always needed good pain to shut out the bad, keep it from creeping in. It's something that Sam understands on a molecular level if not entirely on an intellectual one. Their lives are lousy with violence. They were born and bred into it, are constantly surrounded by it, and to Dean it's become essential. It's violence without threat, and Dean needs it badly, as much as he needs things like food and water and Sam.

"What are you doing back there, making a fucking sandwich?" Dean grits out, so Sam shoves two fingers in his ass to shut him up, quick and unforgiving and almost completely dry.

Sam twists his wrist, pushes in deeper, knows he's found the right spot when Dean moans, lurches forward so fast that Sam thinks for a second that he might be trying to actually climb the fucking tree. He grabs one of Dean's arms and twists it behind his back and holds Dean there, keeps him still while he pays attention to that one particular spot, rubs at it over and over until Dean's knees start to give up and buckle under him.

Dean lands on all fours, jeans still down around his knees and his hands buried in the dead leaves on the forest floor. It's a pretty view from up here, and Sam's dick likes it well enough, hard and throbbing and making a mess out of his shorts.

As he loosens his belt, Sam says, "Did you get off?"

Dean's voice comes back muffled, his face pressed to his forearm. "Quit dicking around."

"So that's a yes," Sam says, sure to sound smug, secure in the knowledge that right now is the safest time to fuck around his with brother. The chance of some future payback is incredibly low.

Cold damp bleeds through his jeans when Sam falls to his knees, and the smell of moldy leaves is stronger now, makes Sam think of something primordial, left too long to rot. He spreads Dean's ass wide and plants his face in there, breathes in deep so he can have a nose full of his brother instead. Sam spits on his hole then licks it up, pushes his thumbs inside his brother to hold him open and wriggles his tongue inside, laps at him until he's soaking and soft, ready for his cock, because Sam might be an asshole, but he's not _that_ much of an asshole.

Without warning, Sam drills into his brother, bottoms out and works his hips against Dean's ass in small hitches, trying to get deeper. Impossibly deeper. Dean loses his breath in a quiet whoosh and begins to scrabble forward, but Sam buries a hand in his hair and holds him steady, wishes that Dean would let his hair grow out a little longer, like he those couple of years when they were teenagers. It always gave him something good to hold onto.

Sam hammers into Dean, stuck on the sight and feel of Dean all around him, the way his body gives and stretches like it's been created specifically with Sam's dick in mind, so tight and so hot. A couple more fast thrusts of his hips and Sam pulls out as quickly as he'd pushed in and hauls Dean around until Dean's on his back, and now it's better. Now Sam gets to watch every minute change in Dean's expression, get a front row seat to each moan he fucks out of his brother's mouth.

Dean's filthy, face smudged with mud, shiny with sweat in all the places in between. When Sam kisses him, bites and pulls at his lips, he comes back filthy too, dirt crunching between his teeth. He slams home again, gets his hands up under Dean's shirt and claws at his ribs, feels a tremor wrack Dean's body as he fucks him past the point of pain and straight through to the other side of it.

"Harder," Dean gasps. "C'mon."

He clenches around Sam, bears down, bucks and squirms and tries to fight Sam's weight, ride his dick from below. Sam picks up speed, fucks into Dean as hard as he can, their bodies colliding with wet, stinging slaps. Sam wipes at the muck on Dean's neck, finds his mark pays a little more attention to it, mindlessly thrusting into Dean now, biting into Dean's skin as he shudders and shivers into his orgasm.

Dean pushes him off but doesn't get up, and doesn't say anything when Sam toys with the puffy, swollen flesh of his rim and dips two fingers inside, not quite ready to give up the heat of his brother.

"Hey Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"You feel better now?"

 


End file.
